Makeup
by lizardmm
Summary: Set sometime in a post-Chosen future, Faith reflects on her Boston past while applying her makeup. Fuffy drabble


_Suggested Listening: "Shelter" by The xx_

I watch myself in the bathroom mirror, and I highlight my dark eyes in an even darker shade of eyeliner. It's not as dark of a color as I used to wear, however. I have you to thank for that.

I lean away from the vanity momentarily to inspect my work. This is a ritual I enjoy; it reminds me of the subtle differences in the way I put myself together now. All thanks to you, I no longer hide behind my former mask of kohl and foundation.

I notice your reflection in the mirror. You're standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing that black slip I love to see you in. You saunter over to me, wrapping your arms around me – one hand on my chest, another rubs my abdomen through my thin tank top, then slips lower. I swallow hard. You smile at my reaction.

"This is why we're always late," I remind you in a raspy tone.

This is the second time this evening we've gotten dressed to go out. I think you see it as a challenge: can you make us late one more time?

Verbally you agree to get dressed, but you continue kissing my face and neck.

"I got lipstick on you," you murmur in my ear before carefully wiping it off. Your touch and the burr of your voice make me shudder.

You get as close to leaving as the bathroom door, then turn to watch me continue getting ready for the evening.

"Do you remember when you first started wearing makeup?" you ask me.

A strange question. I hesitate, putting down the tube of mascara on the bathroom countertop. "Yes."

"When?"

"Over fifteen years ago," I answer laughing, but I'm shaken by my own words. God I'm getting old. "It's a long story," I add.

You look hurt. But I promise to tell you someday when we have more time. I watch your reflection disappear in the direction of the bedroom as the memories overtake me.

I'm eleven.

My mom had never been part of the picture, always drunk or high or gettin' fucked over by one guy after the next. So I guess you can say I never had any healthy female role models. That's why I looked up to her so much – Kristy O'Connor.

Kristy was a few years older than me – maybe 14 at the time – but it felt like we were a generation apart. She came from one of those Good Irish Catholic families. But nothing about this girl was good at all.

She looked about as Irish as they came – cheekbones speckled with tan freckles on pale, ivory skin and a mop of tight, orange curls on her head. She hated her hair. I remember she didn't like me at first because my hair had always been dark and straight as a stick. No amount of flat-ironing was going to straighten out Kristy O'Connor's hair though.

We'd walk home from school together every day, our little Southie gang. There was a cemetery between the public school and our neighborhood. Kristy always found some excuse to climb on top of the limestone retaining wall that separated the cemetery grass from the lower sidewalk. She was the daredevil of the group. There was no reason why she had to walk along that elevated stone wall, but because it was there, Kristy had to conquer it.

If the Streets were our domain, then Kristy was the Queen of our street-urchin kingdom. None of us was particularly physical strong, but we felt invincible roaming the streets in our tight-knit pack.

I remember once, when it was just the two of us hanging out together, Kristy dared me to shoplift a tube of lipstick. I'd never stolen anything in my life previous to that. I didn't do it because she intimated me or threatened me though. I did it because I wanted her approval more than anything.

I still remember the shade and everything – _Tropical Pink_. Don't judge - it was the 'Eighties.

We didn't even leave the store before Kristy insisted we try it on. I just wanted to leave the store as fast as we could; the lipstick container felt heavy, like it was gonna bust a hole in the pocket of my jeans and then all the world would know I was a thief.

I remember Kristy grabbing my wrist and dragging me to the bathroom at the back of the department store. After making sure we were alone in the small semi-public bathroom, she locked the door behind us, and then she proceeded to show me how to properly apply the lipstick so I wouldn't get any stuck between my teeth.

She smacked her lips a few times and kissed the mirror over the vanity sink, leaving the impression of her mouth on the bathroom mirror. Bright pink lips stood out against the mirrored pane of glass. Then Kristy handed me the tube of lipstick, wordlessly suggesting it was my turn next.

I rolled the tube around in the palm of my hand. I had never felt like a girl before. I'd never pretended to be a princess or play dress-up with my mom's makeup and clothes. It was always climbing trees and playing baseball in the vacant lot by our apartment complex. My dad was absent, but so was my mom, so it's not like I'd ever had a real role model to influence me. All I had was Kristy back in those days.

I didn't like the way it felt on my lips at first. Kind of cakey and sticky. When I smacked my lips together like I'd seen Kristy do, my top and bottom lip kind of stuck together. I remember momentarily wondering what would happen if I kissed someone else wearing lipstick – maybe our lips would get stuck together like sticking your tongue on a metal pole in the dead of winter.

Then I kissed the bathroom mirror, near the imprint Kristy had left behind. Thinking back on it now, it definitely wasn't the most sanitary thing I've done in my life. Our lip-prints looked nearly the same, mine maybe a little fuller.

I looked at Kristy's and my reflection in the mirror, with our matching bright pink lips. And for the first time in my young life, I felt something. I felt pretty.

I make it back to the bedroom and see you struggling with the back zipper of your form-fitting dress. I stand in the doorway long enough that you turn and look at me with concern.

"Are you okay?" you ask me.

"Sure," I answer, laughing at myself gently. You know that my answer is both a lie, but also very true.

Forgetting your zipper momentarily you come to me. You put your arms around me again, looking for answers. I have none. Just questions.

The words feel heavy on my tongue: "Am I…" I trail off, unable to finish.

You cock your head to one side and look at me with your perplexed hazel-green eyes. "Are you what, Fai?"

I hesitate. "Am I beautiful?"

You look like you're close to tears. "Yes," you answer firmly. "Inside _and_ out."

Now_ I_ feel close to tears.

"Do you still want to go out?" you ask.

I nod. "Just give me a minute," I respond brusquely.

You look worried, but you let me walk back to the bathroom again, alone.

When I finish applying my makeup, I look at my reflection again and it makes me smile. I can still see her – that lost, naïve girl who grew up in Southie. I see the whole course of my life that has brought me to this moment.

Your reflection appears again in the mirror. You've abandoned the dress and stand behind me in only your black slip.

"Wardrobe change?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.

You give me a smile. That half-smile that's always made my heart flutter.

"Destination change," you state, taking my hand and leading me back to the bedroom.

When you pull my top off over my head and discard it on the floor, I suddenly realize that we won't be making it to that party tonight. And I don't mind at all.

FIN


End file.
